


Interregnum

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Idiot Boyfriends (head over heels and in denial) [10]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, M/M, Secrets, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 20:11:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19184758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: John has been given a mission to fulfil. To find the mole betraying good soldiers and better men.Come hell or high water, he will achieve. He will do anything to achieve.Except that.Never that.





	Interregnum

 

John has been pinned down before, body pressed into a fluffy mattress. So nothing about this is new. Not the nondescript but satisfactory sheets, not the dimmed lighting to set the mood, not the music subtly filtering in from whatever playlist occupies the memory of his phone, not the welcome sensation of lips on his neck.

He shifts, adjusting to the man straddling his hips, but it’s more guilt in his chest, than Captain Eacker’s body weight that makes John shift in discomfort. He sighs, surrendering into the soft touch of George’s roaming hands. Laurens moans against his best efforts to remain composed.

He loosens up, champagne bubbling through his bloodstream, coaxing his limbs into a pleasantly tingling numbness. George’s mouth is on his again, gentle in its quest, lips tinted red by the excess of wine consumed that evening. George's lips taste like cherries, and John’s brain is too inebriated to be concerned with anything but prolonging this buzz. John doesn’t remember articulating that thought, but George seems to agree; the taste of cherries leaves his lips and soon enough, John can feel warm breath over his belly-button. Wine-stained lips go to work, sucking wine-coloured bruises into the skin of John's hips. 

John's hands make fists of the bedcovers, and Eacker’s thumbs are hooking into the waistband of John's boxers before he gains the good sense to shove Eacker off him.

“What the hell, Laurens?”

Eacker’s confusion goes unaddressed as John sits up, eyes catching the flame of the candle’s wick. It flickers, unseen air moving it to and fro as it sways with the music. It’s a fire hazard, and a cheap mockery of romance that both of them are too drunk to fully comprehend. 

The words of John’s confession are slurred, nudged forward by a tongue heavy with intoxication. “I have a boyfriend.”

 

The room stills. 

 

“It's not like I'm looking to marry you, so… What's your point?” 

Laurens averts his gaze from George's intense glare. The question still hangs, low and harsh and unanswerable. If this was about staying faithful to Hercules, he would have stopped the moment his back hit the mattress. But it couldn't be that, because he had sunk into the sheets and relaxed under the roaming, perfectly manicured hands, and let the taste of cherries invade his mouth. Hercules hates cherries. 

“I'm not a cheater.”

George scoffs, hand clamping down on John's shoulder, guiding him back onto the bed. To be fair, it's less  _ guiding  _ and more  _ pushing until the resistance gives way _ . George straddles John again, planting a knee on either side of him. John grunts under the extra weight, hips surrendering to the force of gravity. He's thankful when George frees his wrists from being crushed beneath him, but it only takes the span of a heartbeat for gratitude to transform into utter panic. 

“No, you're just a fucking tease.” George rebukes, pinning John's hands above his head. The weight shifts off of John's hips for the span of a heartbeat and he can see George reaching for something. A second later, cold metal descends upon him, digging into his skin. John fights against them, but no movement is worth the effort; the handcuffs tighten with every jerky, uncoordinated maneuver that he attempts. He halts with a wince, sharp pain registering in a far-off region of his brain, penetrating the sheer inebriation of his bloodstream. He knows he's bleeding; he can feel the warmth drain from his fingers and leak down his arm. 

“George, sto--” and any protests are smothered by the taste of fermented cherries. Hercules hates cherries. 

Hercules would hate _him_.  
  


* * *

  
“Hey Pretty Boy,” Hercules murmurs, resting his craft project beside him. Laurens still isn't sure how his boyfriend manages to create such intricate designs in such poor lighting; the backdrop of the early morning light filtering in behind Herc's chair allows Laurens to witness the silhouette of his boyfriend's magic hands twisting and manipulating the yarn into what would eventually be lace curtains. Hercules stands, shuffling over to where Laurens stands on shaky legs. Herc tilts his head to the side, letting his arms rise to cradle John's face. “You okay?” 

It's almost six in the morning and John is decidedly not okay. And Hercules must see it in the way he's currently dripping a puddle onto the carpet, in the redness of his eyes, in the uncontrollable shivering in his bones, in the tenseness of his posture. John nods in response to the question, too aware of the fact that his voice will betray his infidelity. He wonders if Hercules can smell it on him: the sex, the shame, the hint of cherries and George's cologne, or if the torrential downpour outside those windows has rinsed him of the indignity. 

“Don't you have work in a couple of hours?” Hercules asks, before distracting himself. “We should get you out of these clothes before you catch pneumonia or something.”

“Y-yeah,” John croaks, “you're probably right.” He turns, thankful for the opportunity to escape his boyfriend's grasp. His throat burns, raw and swollen from the abuse Eacker’s solid thrusts inflicted. It's nothing less than he deserves, penance for being misleading, for being a liar, for being a tease. 

“You already sound ill.” Hercules chuckles. “You should take better care of yourself, babygirl. I'll make you some tea, okay?” 

John nods, shuffling down the hall to the bedroom. Hercules deserves better. He shuts the door behind him, content to wallow in his own thoughts. He peels the soaking wet garments off, and pretends that is the same as Eacker never having touched him. 

 

He stands in front of the mirror, inspecting his physique. He isn’t as youthful as he used to be; he knows that. Sees it in the bags under his eyes from too many sleepless nights, sees it in the way his body refuses to define his muscles as obviously as before. He runs a finger down the column of his throat, lets it fan outwards to the knotted flesh of his shoulder that stands out, darker than its surroundings. His fingers don’t have to touch his ribcage to know the exact same features lie there. He’s getting older and weaker, and it’s getting obvious. It's almost as though his left side is a magnet for bullets. At least with age, the scars from old bullet wounds don’t stand out as much. 

But the fresh bruises do.    
The ones that announce themselves along his hips and behind his thighs, and across his throat. Long stretches of blooming purple and red, and for all his power, his commanding rank, he hadn't been able to prevent them. George had still managed to pin him down, brain too slow with the outcome of his own gluttony. His idiocy left him cuffed to that bed, with the blood running from his arms acting as the glue between his tender skin and the fatigued metal. The circular cuts are irregular, but at least they match. They serve as reminders of his feckless wielding of power; his behaviour towards a subordinate, unprofessional and rash and irresponsible. 

John shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but the pain lacing through his skull is all-encompassing, and it brings him to his knees with a heavy thud. He's never suffered a hangover so bad. 

John crawls to the closet, reaching up to grab one of Herc's biggest shirts. It's blue and practically a dress with the way Laurens swims in it. He struggles to don it, resting his head against the carpet halfway through when his body, sobering up and starved of any real nutrients, rescinds its cooperation. 

He wants to scream. To be fair, he's been doing a lot of that lately. Which means he should have thought of that before coming here. He probably should have thought about a lot of things before falling into bed with Captain Eacker. Should have made his disapproval clearer, should have drunk less, shouldn’t have gone home with the soldier in his charge. Somehow, he manages to ease himself into bed a full minute before Hercules ushers in a mug of hot tea. John has gotten used to appreciating small victories. 

 

“Here ya go,” Hercules says, kneeling by Laurens’s bedside. Laurens knows he's wasting Herc's time. 

“What is it?” 

“Honey, lemon, and ginger.” Hercules sets it down within arm's reach. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to poison you.” He smiles, and Laurens knows that Hercules is laughing at his own joke. John tries to smile, but the shift in Herc's expression tells him it's just another thing he's fucked up tonight. 

“Are you okay? Seriously, you look like you've seen a ghost.”

“D-don't worry about it,” though it's probably hard not to worry when his voice sounds like every syllable is painful to utter, like his vocal cords have come out the other side of a meat grinder. “I'm just stressed with the new assignment. That's all.”

“Want me to call General Greene? I can sort him out real quick.”

“Thanks, but I doubt my boss will appreciate me sicing my boyfriend on him.”

Hercules folds his arms, his brow furrowing in suspicion. “What aren't you telling me?” 

John eases himself up into sitting position. He steadies himself, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. It'll only be seconds before Hercules is looking at him with disgust, but it's what he deserves, right? But for all his power, his battlefield experience, and his commanding rank, his courage leaves him and he instantly crumbles. He finds solace in what failed to protect him earlier -- in being misleading, in being a liar, in being a fucking tease. 

“I'm only keeping from you, that for which you don't have clearance, Hercules. It's need-to-know information, and you shouldn't have to burden yourself with it. I am almost certain that you are on a tight deadline and you really shouldn't waste your time fawning over my stupid head cold.” It’s the best portrayal of annoyance he can muster, though his voice rings foreign and false in his own ears.

Hercules, seemingly satisfied with John's vague explanation, bends to press a chaste kiss to John's lips. Herc grimaces, recoiling immediately. John's eyes widen as his heart pounds in his chest, forced and fearful even in his hungover state. Herc has seen right through him, and it's only a matter of seconds until Herc figures out his infidelity and falls out of love. He’ll suffer the safe fate as Lafayette, but with hot tea, second-degree burns and heartbreak in lieu of the cold beer, public embarrassment and French expletives.

“Have you seen the weather outside? Perhaps you wouldn't be so sick if you laid off the cherry ice cream.” Hercules leans back, shaking his head disapprovingly. His eyes twinkle, and John can't bear to meet the gaze. “I love you, y'know that? And trust me, not a second spent with you is a second wasted. There's nothing else I'd rather do.”

 

John swallows the lump in his throat, and the raw ache reminds him of what he doesn't deserve. 

 


End file.
